THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BOOK  OF  DAY-DREAMS 


BY 

CHARLES  LEONARD  MOORE. 


PRESS  OF  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY, 

PHILADELPHIA. 
1888. 


Copyright,  1888,  by  CHARLES  LEONARD  MOORE. 


PS 


i. 

NAKED  December  have  I  curtained  out, 
Its  cobweb  branches  crossing  the  cold  sky;  — 
Dead  am  I  to  the  hurrying  flakes  about, 
Dead  and  close-tombed  in  Eastern  luxury: 
But  not  the  fire's  rich  rapture  with  itself, 
The  carpet's  glow,  the  painted  air  above, 
The  gleam  of  rich-clad  volumes  from  the  shelf, 
The  stained  chessman  or  yon  shadowy  glove, 
The  mantel's  romance  of  bronze-mailed  knights, 
The  sometime  showing  fresco  pastoral, 
The  curtains  closing  me  with  these  delights 
Deep,  deep,  unfathomably  out  of  call, 

Not  these,  but  dreams  and  reveries  allowed 
Make  me  o'er  all  Time's  empty  triumphs  proud. 


II. 

Love,  Melancholy,  Mirth,  the  lyric  three, 
Youth's  myrmidons,  are  with  their  leader  flown, 
Or  if  they  linger,  linger  doubtfully, 
Like  halting  guests  upon  the  threshold  stone; 
Like  birds  that  in  the  altered  forests  now 
Ominously  listen  to  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  fear  to  sing,  lest  they  should  shake  some  bough 
Laden  with  airy  imminence  of  snow. 
But  not  for  aye  my  life  so  blank  is  made, 
An  inventory  of  oblivion; 

In  hours  like  this,  dreams  that  day  makes  afraid 
Throng  to  me,  and  I  seem  upon  a  throne; 
Then  do  I  barter  all  the  world  for  this, 
To  think  my  dreams  real,  real  the  bliss. 


III. 

Then  in  my  hand  I  hold  the  master-trick, 
Having  and  Hope  are  then  alike  in  hue, 
Joy's  lightning  issue  then  that  breathes  so  quick 
Drags  out  infinity  with  processional  view ; 
Then  Honor  straying  from  the  courts  of  men 
Comes  to  me  all  content,  and  Peace  with  her 
Sets  the  lost  Pleiad  in  the  sky  again 
Till  the  round  girdle  blazes  without  blur; 
Then  do  the  fabrics  of  the  world  rebuild 
In  the  clear  day  of  my  transparent  rhyme, 
Then  Spring  does  flush,  and  Autumn  overgild, 
And  Winter  carve  the  lines  I  leave  to  time; 
Then  my  heart  rushes  forth  to  meet  its  lot, 
Then  is  the  face  of  woman  without  blot. 


IV. 

Throng-summoning  sleep,  I  need  thee  not  at  all, 
Nor  Morphia,  nor  the  wine-cup's  drowsed  steam, 
Nor  even  the  poet's  page  imperial, 
To  link  my  daylight  to  a  world  of  dream ; 
Yet,  dread  enchanters  of  intelligence, 
Stroke  my  eyes,  too,  with  your  wing-budded  wands, 
So  my  soul,  loosed,  may  make  its  voyage  hence, — 
Soul  unappeased  at  rumor  of  more  lands, — 
And  find,  perhaps,  the  passage  to  the  East, 
And  tranquil  isles,  and  days  of  tropic  bloom, 
Or  if  its  quest  be  vain,  itself  increased, 
Know  its  own  statue  equal  to  its  doom : 
Eternally  open  the  sky's  line  does  flit, 
But  only  death  and  dreams  do  pierce  through  it. 


V. 

When  I  do  count  the  centuries  that  bar 

Love's  most  perfected  vision  from  my  arms, 

When  I  behold  the  shapes  that  current  are 

And  make  compare  with  age-long  buried  charms, 

Alone  enamoured  of  the  vanished, 

Musing  on  shadows  I  would  woo  to  sense, 

I  write  upon  the  earth  that  seemeth  dead 

The  epitaph  of  every  excellence : 

Then  comes  some  dream  to  lift  Life's  dusky  pall, 

To  body  forth  Juliet  balconied, 

To  bring  again  Antony's  admiral, 

To  make  all  real  expectancy  did  read, 

To  make  me  hear  my  dreamed  lady's  breath 
And  look  upon  her  rescued  eyes  of  death. 


VI. 

Better  perfection  mocking  thee  afar, 
Better  eluding  footfalls  in  the  air, 
Better  the  hope  and  worship  of  a  star, 
Than  the  home-bringing  of  the  fairest  fair. 
Joy  may  make  wild,  content  may  lull  each  sense, 
Earth  be  twice  windowed  in  thy  lady's  eyes, 
But  the  day  comes,  and  the  intelligence, — 
The  ghastly  horror  of  a  chill  surmise, — 
When  shall  thy  love  in  all  her  glittering  shows, 
Gauds,  raiments,  actions  innocent  or  rash, 
Seem  like  the  Magi's  figure  of  a  rose, 
Reflowering  ghost-like  from  its  pallid  ash, 
Or  like  the  writing  that  a  space  entire 
Gleams  on  the  white,  curled  paper  in  the  fire. 


VII. 

The  action  of  the  most  heroic  deed 
Is  scarce  distinguishable  from  a  palsy  fit: 
Man  in  Life's  stream  is  like  a  shaken  reed, — 
Silent  for  all  the  rivers  mouthing  it; 
Nothing  does  he  reveal,  and  nothing  keep 
(Ranked  ghost-like  beckoner  to  the  crinkling  sedge), 
Of  the  stream's  purpose,  flowing  strong  and  deep 
Past  his  vague  motions  in  its  lapping  edge. 
I  hear  the  foreign  echoes  from  the  street, — 
Faint  sounds  of  revel,  traffic,  conflict  keen, 
And  think  that  man's  reiterated  feet 
Have  gone  such  ways  since  e'er  the  world  has  been : 
I  wonder  how  each  oft-used  tone  and  glance 
Retains  its  might  and  old  significance. 


VIII. 

Earth's  rocks,  in  ordered  succession  ranged, 
Are  made  by  Time's  impression  different. 
Being  mutability,  man  bears  unchanged 
The  mark  of  every  age's  accident, 
So  that  all  long-past  shapes  do  seem  to  come 
In  a  mistaken  habit  of  to-day, 
And  each  contemporary  is  at  home 
Within  the  crumbled  towers  of  hoar  decay; 
And  thence  is  Fame's  eternal  audience, 
Which  does  applaud  itself  in  antique  shows, 
And  at  Time's  circle  mirror  burns  intense, 
Reacting  each  anticipated  pose: 

Thy  smile,  thy  gesture  unto  Pharaoh  known, 
Outlives  its  presentation  carved  in  stone. 


IX. 

Soon  is  the  echo  and  the  shadow  o'er, 
Soon,  soon  we  lie  with  lid-encumbered  eyes, 
And  the  great  fabrics  that  we  reared  before 
Crumble  to  make  a  dust  to  hide  who  dies. 
Gone,  and  the  empty  and  unstatued  air 
Keeps  not  the  mould  or  gesture  of  our  limbs, 
But  with  investiture  and  garb  as  fair 
Folds  the  next  shape  that  to  its  circle  swims. 
Fools,  so  to  paint  our  pageant  grave  with  deeds, 
And  make  division  in  the  elements. 
Earth  yields  us  splendid  mansions  for  our  needs, 
And  only  takes  our  lives  to  pay  the  rents. 

Ah,  but  our  dreams !     Beyond  earth's  count  they  rise 

In  sage  and  hourly  eternities. 


These  words,  that  slow,  plashed  rains  obliterate, 
Writ  and  rewrit,  have  tired  the  touch  of  Time ; 
These  passions  that  my  heart  does  deem  so  great 
Are  plagiaries  remembering  some  old  rhyme : 
Ay,  this  inheritance  of  moving  flesh, 
Pieced  from  the  shreds  and  dust  of  antique  men, 
Does  its  old  deeds  in  the  old  ways  afresh, 
Checked  oft  by  the  familiar  doubt,  "Again." 
But  my  soul  is  not  second-hand,  nor  staled 
The  sure,  proud  visions  surging  through  my  heart; 
New,  new  they  rise,  their  glory  has  not  failed 
Before,  nor  shall  a  second  time  upstart; 
God,  wanting  my  consent,  shall  not  create 
The  world  within  me  where  I  rule  as  fate. 


XL 

What  binds  us  to  the  world  ?     Deep  sounds  and  gleams 

We  find  or  feign  in  it.      But  it  can  be 

Most  subtle  in  its  forgery  of  dreams, 

And  borrows  from  us  to  our  beggary. 

What  else?      The  hint  of  conscience  in  the  heart 

Still  showing  frankness  for  its  own  proud  sake, 

Though  by  deceit  engirt,  till,  bound  by  art, 

It  nobly  keeps  the  vow  it  did  not  make. 

What  more?      Ah,  most  the  pleasure  of  the  eye, 

The  touch  of  bosoms  mutinously  fair, 

Kisses,  those  last  heirs  of  reality, 

And  the  soul-lingering  loops  of  perfumed  hair, — 
These  keep  us  from  Elysium.      O,  my  soul, 
Break  their  slight  chain,  escape  their  strong  control ! 


XII. 

Dreams  must  forego  the  good  that  doing  has, 
Strife's  glow  and  grace  and  olive  guerdon  won, 
Joys  that  have  wings,  but  still  like  swallows  pass 
Close  to  the  ground,  deeds  done  or  well  begun. 
Too  vast  Thought's  domain  for  such  limit  joys, 
Daylight  may  dawn  and  die  unnoticed  there, 
And  the  soul,  soaring  from  life's  safe  employs, 
Is  but  a  traveller  in  that  upper  air; — 
Traveller  forthright,  athwart,  in  blinded  path, 
Seeking  to  wrest  Time's  secret  from  Time's  rule, 
To  give  to  nature  more  than  nature  hath, — 
Problem  divine  for  every  noble  fool. 

Look  you  at  what  this  crucible  does  hold, — 
How  the  lead  bubbles  with  the  rose  of  gold. 


XIII. 

Here  is  my  limit,  here  am  I  encamped, 

Beyond  this  sentinelled  space  my  being  ends, 

And  opens  the  world's  highways,  overtramped 

By  foes,  half  foes,  and  masked  shapes  miscalled  friends ; 

Not  here  the  siege,  the  desolate,  crumbling  breach, 

The  spirit's  thousand  wounds  and  hourly  death; 

Safe  in  my  isolation,  out  of  reach, 

The  world  goes  by  me  like  a  floating  breath: 

The  eternal  light  enfolds  me  without  flaw, 

Uninterposed  of  figure  and  so  clear 

Of  flickering  shade.    But  should  I  ope  a  door, 

Though  to  the  sun  itself,  for  aye  arrayed, 

An  armed  shadow  in  my  very  heart 

Stands  aiming  the  inexorable  dart. 


XIV. 

From  adoration  learn  I  to  deny, 
As  amid  music  snaps  the  o'erstrained  wire, 
For  overlearned  grows  the  loving  eye, 
And  too  desirous  even  is  desire. 
Deep  in  the  secret  heart  in  sudden  lair 
The  imperious  image  of  our  hope  does  sit, 
And  portrait  after  portrait  for  compare 
We  handle,  but  the  features  do  not  fit. 
Soul  unto  soul  glooms  darkling  and  unknown, 
Kisses  but  seal  the  truce  of  enemies, 
No  voice  finds  echo  in  another's  tone, 
And  the  heart  still  for  its  true  fellow  cries. 
Naked,  thou  strainest  a  bride  unto  thy  breast, 
But  in  dreams  only  is  she  all  possessed. 


XV. 

Disguise  upon  disguise,  and  then  disguise, 
Equivocations  at  the  rose's  heart, 
Life's  surest  pay  a  poet's  forgeries, 
The  gossamer  gold  coinage  of  our  art. 
Why  hope  for  truth?      Thy  very  being  slips, 
Lost  from  thee,  in  thy  crowd  of  masking  moods. 
Why  hope  for  love?      Between  quick-kissing  lips 
Is  room  and  stage  for  all  hate's  interludes. 
One  with  thy  love  thou  art! — her  eyes,  her  hair 
Known  to  thy  soul,  a  pure  estate  of  bliss; 
But  some  least  motion,  look,  or  changed  air, 
And  nadir  unto  zenith  nearer  is : 

Thou  mayest  control  her  limbs,  but  not  begin 
To  know  what  planet  rules  the  tides  within. 


XVI. 

War  I  then  'gainst  the  strong  edicts  of  Love 
And  all  the  ages'  purple-dyed  report? 
No,  by  the  heavens  in  the  depths  whereof 
Is  Love's  inviolable  and  perfect  court 
Tiptoe  for  flight  and  yet  not  fugitive, 
On  my  heart's  height  and  verge  Love  ever  stands, 
With  eyes  that  conquer  Fate,  with  lips  that  give 
Fevers  to  Death,  with  fame-awarding  hands: 
The  secret  that  upon  her  face  is  born, 
The  music  of  the  motion  of  her  limbs, 
Are  an  empoisoned  madness.    I  pass  on, 
Mute  questioner  of  the  heavens'  empty  rims, 
As  one  who,  with  the  sunset  on  his  face, 
Turns  to  match  colors  in  some  darkened  place. 


XVII. 

Thus  would  I  charge  my  soul.    Go  thou  and  float 
With  her  I  love  in  thought-unclouded  play 
On  the  world's  naked  pathway  far  remote, 
Leaving  this  dull  encampment  of  the  day, 
Till  the  mysterious  stars  and  symbol  lights — 
Dragon,  or  bear,  or  lion,  as  they  chance — 
Shall  alter,  and  the  heaven  resume  by  rights 
Its  inner  and  immortal  countenance: 
For  floating  on  that  breast  of  Time  will  be 
Time's  secret,  our  two  selves,  loosed  from  all  task, 
Divided,  yet  one  strong  identity; 
And  at  the  sight  all  shows  must  straight  unmask, 
And  throughout  space  one  pulse  of  joy  must  leap 
To  wed  light  with  the  wandering,  obscure  deep. 


XVIII. 

O  most  pure  spirit  and  subtle  being  of  force, 
Dream  beyond  thought  and  God  beyond  all  dream, 
Why  hast  thou  set  thine  absolute  divorce 
Between  the  separate  souls  that  from  thee  stream? 
Earth's  corporate  figures  each  in  each  may  blend 
And  take  each  other's  image  and  impress, 
Coupled  with  shadow  till  the  world  does  end. 
But  sole  the  spirit  lives,  and  shadowless, 
Unknown  its  seat,  and  all  its  act  in  doubt. 
Its  immortal  being  to  itself  most  strange, 
How  can  it  mingle  with  the  world  without, 
It  the  one  certain  thing  that  shall  not  change  ? 
This  is  its  doom:  to  be,  O  fate  perverse, 
Prisoned  at  heart  of  the  free  universe. 


XIX. 

This  is  the  horror  of  man's  glorious  mood, — 
Self-sphered,  self-poised,  by  nought  without  possessed,- 
To  seek  with  certain  aim  its  single  good, 
Each  shrill  voice  differing  from  the  choric  rest. 
Harsh  law,  yet  well !      Else  would  the  death  of  one 
Poison  the  goblets  of  life's  general  feast, 
Else  would  the  myriad  world's  unending  moan 
Be  in  each  ear  aye  iterate  and  increased. 
The  image  of  a  star  in  every  soul 
Lives,  and  does  draw  its  charge  athwart,  apart; 
Together  does  the  pageant  seem  to  roll ; 
But,  ah !  the  distance,  the  unneighbored  heart  : 
Stars  may  not  meet  till  they  in  ruin  end, 
And,  save  in  death,  no  soul  may  know  a  friend. 


XX. 

Yet  if  uncaring  for  the  increasing  ghosts 

That  throng  and  beckon  where  life's  paths  descend, 

In  turn  uncared  for  by  the  human  hosts, 

The  soul  may  lean  on  Nature  as  a  friend. 

Look  in  her  eyes :  those  shadowed  realms  are  fair. 

Cling,  closer  cling  to  her  deep-cloven  breast: 

Her  cool  arms  thrill,  her  eyes  do  seem  to  wear 

The  very  secret  of  the  sweetest  rest. 

Sink,  sink  to  sleep,  so  choosing  to  believe 

Thou  hast  a  balm  for  all  the  hurt  without, 

A  consolation  for  the  thoughts  that  grieve, 

An  answer  to  the  unconquerable  doubt. 

Day  shall  wait  on  thee,  and  the  twilight  pale, 
The  stars  shall  thicken  and  the  leaves  shall  fail. 


XXI. 

Fool !   so  deluded  in  thine  own  great  lot, 
Nature  can  succor  not  thy  mysteries : 
She  is  immortal,  but  may  enter  not 
The  hollow  circle  where  thy  being  lies. 
Rose-hedges,  ridged  horizons,  and  her  ring, 
Of  azure  keeps  thee;  ay,  thy  flesh  is  built 
Up  from  her  infinite  environing, — 
Sounds,  motions,  scents ;   yet  sudden  if  thou  wilt 
Empties  this  empire  and  the  soul  remains, 
The  soul  swift,  splendid,  daring,  competent, — 
Neither  uppropped  by  Nature,  nor  in  chains, — 
Doubting  alone  the  errand  it  was  sent: 

Perchance  that  dew-wet  branch  that  swished  my  face 
Helped  form  my  soul;   but  I,  I  knew  its  grace. 


XXII. 

No  bloom  breaks  from  the  marbles  of  the  past, 
Blurred  is  the  picture  of  the  present  act, 
Hope's  dim  inheritance,  in  the  future  cast, 
Bears  not  a  harvest  through  the  shadowy  tract. 
O,  dulled  with  Memory  and  tired  with  Hope, 
Dwellers  on  earth,  a  new,  sweet  faith  I  bring, — 
A  magic  that  shall  lift  the  heaviest  cope, 
A  medicine  that  shall  mend  each  broken  wing ! 
Say,  art  thou  rich,  haggard  with  weight  of  gold, 
Yet  always  wanting  what  thou  canst  not  name? 
Say,  art  thou  poor,  an  outcast  from  the  fold? 
Equal  my  power  in  thee,  my  word  the  same : — 
This  must  thou  do;  wrap  thyself  round  in  dreams, 
And  scorn  the  presence  of  the  world  that  seems. 


XXIII. 

Fortune,  proud  fool !   that  deemest  the  heart  of  man 

Waked  and  won  only  by  thy  slight  allure, 

Know  that  thy  footstep  seals  those  founts  again 

That  else  were  free,  that  else  were  full  and  pure : 

Thou  hast  Life's  keys,  and  dost  command  success, — 

Success,  poor  shadow  of  the  soul  of  hope ; 

But  all  thy  gain  is  present  weariness 

And  the  gods'  laughter  from  their  unsealed  slope. 

Go,  harlot,  with  thy  faces  of  regard, 

Wind-varying  for  the  lovers  at  thy  side, 

I  am  not  poor  enough  for  thy  reward, 

Honor  and  splendor  in  my  heart  abide; 

I  want  thee  not,  save  that  thou  kneel,  and  so 

Proffer  thy  service  as  cup-bearers  do. 


XXIV. 

For  me  the  dark  within,  girdled  with  fires, 
Thought-fashioned  or  self-lit  ere  thought  began, 
Filled  with  sinister  stir  that  still  retires, 
The  echoes  in  the  lonely  heart  of  man ; 
For  me  the  brink  of  death,  the  abyss  of  fear, 
The  trysting-place  of  madness  and  of  ruth, 
Where  joy  and  hope  and  love  begin,  and  where 
Opens  the  only  road  that  leads  to  truth ; 
Where  throned  dwells  my  being's  subtle  king, 
Half  maker  of  the  deeds  he  must  rehearse, 
The  imperious  and  unweariable  thing, 
Thought,  set  in  his  own  forged  universe. 

Doubt  though  he  may,  I  doubt  not  him,  but  come 
And,  unreluctant,  charge  him  with  my  doom. 


XXV. 

Oh,  answerer  to  all  unspoken  needs, 
Nurse  of  the  soul's  faint  flame  and  secret  breath, 
Muse  of  most  mighty  arts  and  of  those  deeds 
That  do  not  go  the  usual  way  to  death, 
Daemon  I  call  thee,  guardian  who  doth  stand, 
Torch-bearing  and  with  glorious  guiding  eyes, 
'Twixt  those  dark  chasms  on  the  either  hand, 
The  greater  and  the  less  infinities ! 
Take  thou  my  heart's  blood,  that  our  league  may  lack 
No  sign  to  make  me  thine  and  keep  me  so; 
What  thou  dost  bid  I  do  and  not  hold  back; 
Then,  then,  one  hour  of  joy  do  thou  bestow : 
Thronged  are  my  heavens  or  their  aisles  unfill, 
As  thy  sweet  music  whispers  or  is  still. 


XXVI. 

Come,  gossip  of  the  eternal  true  antique, 
Dumb  art  thou  of  the  undescended  One, 
But  of  the  lesser  godheads  thou  may'st  speak, 
Their  dynasty  does  not  outdate  thine  own ; 
So  if  I  think  of  colors  thou  wilt  fling 
Hyperion's  shadow  on  my  narrowed  eyes, 
And  if  I  dream  of  music,  thou  wilt  bring 
Lutes  that  still  hold  the  Muses'  memories  ; 
Thou  wilt  the  thin,  sparse  chronicles  of  old 
Fill  with  all  fortunate  figures  of  bright  youth, 
Thou  wilt  regild  Apollo's  hair  of  gold, 
And  move  the  lips  oracular  of  truth; 

Thou  wilt  reshrine  the  earliest  god  of  love, 
And  make  my  heart  the  altar-fire  thereof. 


XXVII. 

Daemon,  O  Daemon,  thou  lute-playing  fiend, 
For  lust  of  love  thou  hast  my  soul  in  fee: 
I  am  thy  slave;   but  for  this  cause  demeaned, 
The  whole  world  else  knows  no  such  royalty; 
Thou  hast  my  soul:   see  that  thou  yield  instead 
A  distillation  past  the  rose's  bloom, 
Hues  that  shall  strike  the  sunset's  colors  dead, 
Shades  subtler  than  the  closely-shuttled  gloom; 
Divide  each  joy,  dive  to  each  spirit-sense, 
And  build  dominion  in  an  atom's  space, 
Make  sure  the  heavens  with  starry  permanence, 
Ay,  carve  in  marble  mystery's  mocking  face. 
Do  this  and  we  are  quits ;  but  less,  thou  art 
Falser  than  the  false  world  from  which  I  part. 


XXVIII. 

After  our  argument  and  doctrine  proved 
Of  the  earth's  show  and  senses  counterfeit, 
Do  not  thou  cheat  me,  O,  my  one  beloved: 
Be  thou  my  life  and  all  my  world  complete. 
Ages  of  shadow  have  refined  thy  face, 
Thy  limbs  are  woven  of  dusk  and  filmy  dyes, 
Thine  eyes  build  from  the  dark,  but  have  no  place,- 
Dim  counter  stars  of  crossed  nativities ; 
But  thou  hast  ventured  where  no  foot  has  trod, 
Scarce  can'st  thou  silence  all  thy  thunderous  past; 
In  the  first  circle  that  was  drawn  by  God 
Thy  being  rose  and  was  not  thence  outcast. 
Now  in  this  narrow  cell  thou  feignest  to  be, 
Who  art  afloat  upon  the  eternal  sea ! 


XXIX. 

That  which  shall  last  for  aye  can  have  no  birth. 
Thou  art  immortal !   therefore  thou  hast  been 
A  voyage  to  which  the  journey  of  the  earth 
Is  but  the  shifting  of  some  tawdry  scene. 
Thou  wert  not  absent  when  the  camp  began 
Of  the  great  captains  of  the  middle  air, — 
Sirius  and  Vega  and  Aldebaran, — 
Myriads,  and  but  the  marshals  numbered  there; 
Ay,  earlier  yet  in  the  God-purposed  void, 
The  dream  and  desert  of  oblivion, 
Thou  livedest, — a  thought  of  one  to  be  employed 
Ere  yet  Time's  garments  thou  did'st  take  and  don : 
Guest  that  no  footprint  on  my  threshold  leaves, 
Speak,  O,  dim  traveller,  speak:  thy  host  believes 


XXX. 

Bread  and  the  liberty  to  be  with  thee! 
Comfort  thou  takest,  but  leavest  me  happiness; 
And,  to  deliver  from  life's  tyranny, 
Poor  and  obscure,  these  are  thy  terms  to  bless. 
Holding  the  robe,  I  sink  to  that  last  house, 
The  mind's  deep  hollow  where  the  Muses  hide, 
And  couched  upon  the  poignant-breathed  fir-boughs, 
Accept  the  wide-eyed  phantoms  at  thy  side. 
Dell  above  dell,  but  nowhere  the  domed  sky, 
Trees  girdling  darkness  and  themselves  obscure, 
Lanes  slanting  to  oblivion's  mystery, — 
This  is  thy  realm,  thrice  guarded  and  secure; 
This  is  our  stage  on  which  we  may  enact 
Life's  secret  dream  and  undivulged  act. 


XXXI. 

Sometimes  I  image  thee  a  beauteous  youth, 

Stained  with  bright  blood  and  blushes  through  and  through, 

Gay  in  the  service  of  austerest  truth, 

In  borrowed  beauty,  Beauty  set  to  woo; 

The  panoply  of  maiden  youth  is  worn 

Then  on  my  heart,  true  love-knots,  gaudy  ties, 

And  silver  buckles  and  lace  sleeves  half-torn, 

All  rash  inconsequent  and  headlong  guise: 

Yet  I  am  better  when  thou  thus  art  by, 

And  wiser  for  thy  hot  blood,  generous  wars: 

Out  of  thy  holy  eyes  that  cannot  lie 

I  read  the  steady  promise  of  the  stars. 

Sleep  ever  in  my  breast,  sleep  within  call, 

O,  armed  soldier  archangelical ! 


XXXII. 

Sometimes  an  older  comrade  dost  thou  seem, 
Wise  with  the  practice  of  life's  dangerous  art. 
Below  the  bottom  hast  thou  dived,  yet  deem 
No  whit  the  worse  of  life  or  man's  poor  part. 
Within  some  tavern's  cool  recess  we  sit 
And  watch  the  garish  actors  of  the  day, 
Who,  as  outside  they  seem  to  stage  our  wit, 
Seek  plaudits  from  the  authors  of  the  play; 
Or,  turning  to  our  wine,  we  make  debate 
Of  good  and  evil,  of  the  turn  of  chance, 
Of  the  last  whisper  thou  hast  had  from  Fate, 
And  of  my  soul's  proud  soaring  dominance. 
Gentle  in  all  thou  art,  for  thou  hast  seen 
High  heaven,  and  hell,  and  all  the  road  between. 


XXXIII. 

And  oft  dost  thou  usurp  a  woman's  eyes, 
Stars  that  my  gloomy  soul  keeps  safe,  when  I, 
Lost  inmate  of  the  oldest  paradise, 
Feel  suddenly  flung  ope  the  gate  whereby 
Love  comes,  and  clear  again  my  way  is  made 
To  the  harmonious  meadows  of  desire, 
Where,  mid  eternal  dawns  that  cannot  fade, — 
A  burning  shadow  at  the  heart  of  fire, — 
Crowned  with  pure  flowers,  naked  yet  unknown, 
Thou  sittest,  and  the  inviolable  secrecy 
Of  self,  that  keeps  men  separate  as  stone, 
Melt'st  with  a  glance,  and  so  reveal'st  to  me, 
Past  the  sweet  shame  of  sex,  that  mirroring  deep 
Where  our  two  figures  in  one  image  sleep. 


XXXIV. 

Be  as  thou  wilt,  thou  art  my  spirit  choice 
And  counterbalance  of  the  world  without; 
The  sea  clinks  idly  through  thy  linked  voice, 
Thine  eyes  displace  the  stars  and  bar  day  out. 
Summed  each  in  each,  what  care  we  for  the  might 
Of  protestations  that  the  earth  does  make? 
As  cards  are  shuffled  or  as  chessmen  fight, 
Men  go  about  their  games,  nor  know  the  stake ; 
Yet  could  they,  closed  in  the  same  bounds  as  now, 
Burn  their  swift  way  unto  that  deeper  room, 
Life's  treasure-chamber?    Ay,  they  could — but  how? 
Dead !    They  are  dead  and  do  not  know  their  doom. 

Leave  them  unto  their  grave,  sweet  guest !     Away  ! 

The  great  tides  wait  to  bear  us  to  the  day. 


XXXV. 

Tush  for  the  waves !   we  bear  our  charm  within. 

Tush  for  the  clouds !   the  pilot  of  the  skies 

Sleeps  in  the  soul  where  it  had  origin. 

Tush  for  the  toil !   the  cleft  spray  backward  flies. 

The  land  we  seek  is  far,  is  far  remote, 

But  only  to  the  land  we  leave — that  lost 

On  the  new  quay  quick  grates  our  charmed  boat, 

The  sail  falls  in,  the  unmeasured  sea  is  crossed. 

New  lands  ?    New  worlds  ?    I  spring  upon  the  beach 

No  stranger,  but  a  native  and  a  son: 

I  grasp  the  soil  I  grew  from  in  my  reach, 

And  endless  distance  and  dominion, 

And  from  the  thick-stemmed  shades  in  pomp  descend 
Gods,  heroes,  helpers,  ay,  perchance  a  friend. 


XXXVI. 

Then  shall  we  see  and  know  the  group  divine, 
The  sure  immortals  of  the  world's  vague  throng, 
Ceaseless  continuers  of  the  purple  line, 
The  equal-sceptred  kings  of  Deed  and  Song: 
From  sire  to  sire  to  Orpheus  and  beyond, 
Thrilled  with  the  blood  of  Hector  do  they  come, 
Blazoned  on  eyes  believing,  eyes  too  fond 
To  fail  to  follow  them  unto  their  home. 
Hark !    their  thin  tread  outechoes  the  vast  hosts 
That  shake  the  valleys  of  the  globe  beneath ; 
Their  smile  is  fire ;  their  eyes  (O,  subtle  ghosts !) 
Have  waked  in  me  the  passion  of  the  Wreath 

Without  whose  round  not  heaven  itself  is  bliss, 

Nor  immortality  immortal  is. 


XXXVII. 

Though  I  be  less  than  naught,  yet  not  the  less 
Keats  shall  step  out  to  greet  me  from  the  rest, — 
Keats,  who  himself  went  still  companionless 
Save  for  the  golden  genius  in  his  breast; 
Who,  spite  all  weakness  and  all  doubt,  was  led 
(Calm  lord  of  life  with  full  possession  crowned) 
To  life's  deep  haunt,  when  other  poets  fled 
Fevered  or  frantic  from  the  holy  ground. 
Now  made  the  shepherd  of  the  heavenly  plains, 
Moving  with  clouds  and  stars  athwart  the  blue, 
Marshalling  mysterious  herds  to  happier  strains 
Than  aught  Theocritus  or  Virgil  knew, 

Keats  shall  step  forth,  by  mighty  passions  moved,- 
The  art  he  cherished  and  the  earth  he  loved. 


XXXVIII. 

Then  shall  I  see  a  giant  deity 
Rise  on  the  day-appearing  pageant's  track, 
And  loose  his  sounding  arrows  through  the  sky 
With  sudden  echo  of  the  string  sprung  back, 
And  suns  and  circling  stars  and  wandering  lights 
May  dawn,  may  darken,  may  decay  and  die ; 
But  those  sped  shafts,  sent  in  such  angry  flights, 
Blazing  about  the  halls  of  Night,  shall  lie. 
Then  shalt  thou  turn  and  say  with  pallid  lips, — 
"That  was  the  shade  of  mighty  ^Eschylus ; 
His  intolerable  light  becomes  eclipse, 
His  fiery  eyes  shake  shadows  over  us. 
Thunders  do  gird  him !     Yet  but  list  again, — 
Music  as  soft  as  slumber-lulling  rain." 


XXXIX. 

Then  shall  we  come  on  one  in  that  vast  realm, 

Forever  idle  mid  the  full  employ; 

Darkness  sits  o'er  him  as  to  overwhelm, 

And  at  his  knees  Light  stands  like  some  pure  boy. 

From  such  converse  what  secret  has  he  guessed? 

None  knows !      But  this  thou  say'st :  "Amid  all  strife 

He  only  at  the  heart  of  things  at  rest 

Lifts  not  a  hand  to  turn  the  wheel  of  life. 

That  Shakespeare  is,"  thou  sayest  in  awed  tone. 

"Men  knew  him  busy,  cheerful,  full  of  mirth; 

They  did  not  deem  his  spirit  sat  alone, 

Judging  all  beings  of  an  equal  birth. 

Come,  let  us  pass,  nor  vex  that  supreme  mind 
Who  knew  the  void  beyond  the  painted  wind." 


XL. 

Then  shalt  thou,  Daemon,  my  dark  eyes  assuage 
With  squeezed  juices  of  some  spirit  herb, 
And,  ended  their  long  earthly  vassalage, 
Reality  shall  to  the  hope  reverb; 
Then  shall  the  spaces  of  the  empty  air 
Unroll  the  riches  they  so  smoothly  hid, 
Aud  flashing  towers  and  marble  frontage  there 
Shall  gleam,  and  porch  and  temple  and  pyramid; 
Then  shall  I  see  the  forms  that  mirrored  are, 
Blurred  in  their  being  on  the  under-earth, 
The  divine  transport  of  the  face  of  Law, 
Wisdom's  sad  mien,  and  Number's  magic  birth, — 
Visions  perfected,  whose  vague,  flying  gleams 
Vex  and  perplex  us  in  the  place  of  dreams. 


XLL 

The  second  of  the  sevenfold  spheres  these  guard, — 
An  obscure  cavern,  intricate,  wherein 
Echo  itself  is  lost  beyond  reward. 
Here  enter  and  emerge  whate'er  has  been, 
Or  is,  or  may  be, — herds,  with  trampling  roar, 
Of  stars  and  suns,  and  men  that  come  and  go, 
And  the  unfathomable  dream  of  more, 
All  moving,  mingling,  melting  in  strange  flow. 
This  is  the  realm  of  change  and  difference, 
Of  subtle  diminution  and  increase ; 
Naught  sure,  and  yet  uncertainties  intense 
Building  a  world  and  bending  war  to  peace. 
Here  may  we  stand,  and  from  the  unsorted  sty 
Take  our  inheritance  as  it  wanders  by. 


XLII. 

Then  do  we  gain  through  gates  that  never  close 
Gardens  of  sunlit  aspect  and  serene, 
Girdled  with  summits  from  whose  wreaths  of  rose 
Fall  in  eternal  folds  the  myriad  green. 
About  are  pastoral  reaches  and  great  trees 
Whose  frontage  darkens  daylight,  and  amid 
The  intermingling  intricacies  of  these 
Vases  and  statues  and  vast  steps  are  hid, — 
Stairs  that  go  where  none  knows,  but  go  not  far, 
For  this  is  Heaven,  and  needs  no  height  above, 
Whereon  ascending  or  descending  are 
Ladies,  or  else  in  garments  subtly  wove, 
Or  nobly  naked  and  more  evident 
Of  Beauty's  law,  whose  being  they  present. 


XLIII. 

Root  of  these  glades,  a  fountain  gushes  up, 
Mirroring  again  the  life  it  gives,  its  flow 
O'erbubbling  like  an  overbrimming  cup, 
Veining  with  silver  gleam  the  grass  below : 
About  its  rim — brood  of  the  old  disguise — 
The  Lion  of  the  Desert  of  the  Real 
Strides,  and  with  sombre  flashes  in  its  eyes 
Death  and  all  worser  terrors  does  reveal. 
Heed  not  this  guard,  my  guide,  but  taste  and  share 
The  singing  water !      Ah,  we  grow  alive ! 
My  flesh,  translated  to  a  thing  of  air, 
Spurns  at  each  chain  and  intellectual  gyve; 
Life  on  my  lips,  and  in  my  bosom  peace, — 
Joy's  fount  is  this,  whence  cometh  all  increase. 


XLIV. 

Thou  beckonest  and  I  dread  not  to  descend! 
I 

The  waves  climb  up,  but  climbs  not  up  my  heart 
Calm  pulsing.      Dimly  seen,  thine  eyes  portend 
Some  change,  and  lo !  the  world  of  form  and  art 
Fades,  is  effaced,  is  a  foreign  thing, 
And  Life's  true  birth,  the  blazing  prodigy, 
Fire,  girds  us  :   Fire  upon  the  rolling  stream, 
Fire  on  the  walled  vistas  that  I  see, 
Fire  ever,  fire  alone;  leaping  Desire! 
Fire  is  my  blood  and  fire  thy  sombre  eyes, 
The  very  shadows  of  this  world  are  fire, 
And  its  forged  forms  melt  back  as  they  arise; 
And  up  and  down  and  here  again  the  same 
Love  roaring  goes  with  wings  that  fan  the  flame. 


XLV. 

A  voice!      Is  it  a  voice?      A  sense  of  ruth 
Or  joy  too  mighty  to  be  understood, 
The  unintelligible  cry  of  Truth, 
O'erwhelms  and  drowns  out  every  other  mood; 
And  all  the  single  element  of  Love, 
And  all  the  full  designs  of  former  spheres, 
Die  into  silence  at  the  next  remove. 
Dim  colloquist,  for  this  thou  trainedst  my  ears 
With  spirit-murmurs  in  the  days  of  time, 
That  to  us,  standing  on  the  utmost  verge, 
Truth's  music  and  immeasurable  rhyme 
Might  from  the  noises  and  the  night  emerge. 
Ah!  well  that  to  the  image-heated  brain 
Truth's  fluted  notes  came  first  and  last  remain. 


XLVI. 

Yet  who  this  even,  equal  strain  can  reach 
Is  but  by  halting  parted  from  his  end. 
Triumph  to  thee,  my  Daemon,  thou  did'st  teach 
The  way  and  nobly  stood'st  my  spirit's  friend. 
Now,  now  the  all-desired  Vision  comes, 
The  show  of  Beauty  in  its  hidden  heart, 
Rest  and  Decay  tracked  to  their  secret  homes, 
The  accounted  figure  of  the  shadowy  part; 
Darkness  and  Light  are  now  together  grown, 
And  Order  and  Disorder  strive  no  more; 
Space  real  is,  but  dwindles  into  One; 
Times  lives,  but  lives  no  After  nor  Before: 

Daemon,  halt  not.     Let  us  sweep  on  and  be 

Lost  in  the  Godhead  of  Identity. 


XLVII. 

For  one  last  question  do  I  seek  thine  eyes : 

Honest  thou  seemest,  yet  may'st  thou  choose  to  cheat, 

And  by  the  long  way  of  illusive  lies 

Read  me  false  knowledge  and  my  soul's  defeat. 

Steady  thou  gazest,  yet  thy  clear  orbs  within 

A  flickering  serpent  glimmer  seems  to  grow; 

My  adjuration  does  surprise  thy  sin ; 

Thou  hast  deceived  me — or  dost  nothing  know! 

The  way  we  came  is  not  the  way,  or  hap 

Thou  knew'st  no  way,  but  gave  the  reins  to  chance, 

And  with  thy  glamour  bridged  each  yawning  gap, 

That  I  shouldst  praise  thee  and  thy  fame  advance! 

Or  do  I  wrong  thee,  or  but  find  thee  out? 

Teacher  of  scorn,  thyself  hast  taught  the  doubt ! 


XLVIII. 

So :  but  angelic  anger  fills  thy  face, 

Thy  height  is  awful,  and  thy  gloom  increased, 

And  with  the  gesture  of  a  nobler  race 

Thou  break'st  the  sceptre  of  my  world  released. 

Slow  floats  thy  figure  through  my  open  door, 

And  through  the  entry,  o'er  the  threshold  led, 

I  hear  thy  echoing  footsteps  slow  withdraw, 

And  I  of  hope  am  disinherited. 

Or  have  I  made  escape,  and  am  I  free, 

Or  worse  condemned  to  a  narrower  cell? 

Sure  by  myself  I  touch  no  Deity, 

Thou  knew'st  the  password  and  the  sentinel. 

But  better  so,  rather  than  with  thee  dwell 

Forever  with  the  o'er-impossible. 


XLIX. 

Lo !  I  unbar  my  window  and  fling  open 

The  gateways  of  the  world  of  sense  again : 

A  blazon  is  upon  the  eastward  slope 

In  which  the  dark  thought  has  no  part  or  pain; 

Virgin  again  the  Morn  so  oft  enjoyed 

Upon  the  chilly  threshold  of  the  earth, 

With  limbs  yet  trembling  from  the  colder  void, 

Waits  to  be  ushered  to  the  fire  and  mirth. 

O  enter,  and  my  empty  world  possess ! 

O  enter,  and  the  phantoms  backward  roll! 

Be  a  creation  to  my  nothingness, 

An  incarnation  to  my  shadowy  soul ! 

But  guard  thy  realm,  and  fill  each  vacant  space, 
Or  the  dread  Daemon  will  return  apace. 


L. 

Before  the  birth  of  Spring  there  comes  a  time, 
Some  February  day's  faint  augury, 
With  something  of  the  Summer's  gentle  prime, 
Rude  yet  with  Winter's  unrelinquished  sway. 
Such  charm  of  doubtful  season  is  there  here; 
Spring's  green  enamel  donned  too  hastily 
Lets  icicles  and  frozen  buds  appear; 
But  the  bland  air  is  all  the  breath  of  May. 
Look  not  again  to  see  such  halting  act 
In  the  round  of  the  passion-entered  year, 
Such  tame  recital  of  tumultuous  fact 
From  this  full  song  whose  midsummer  is  near. 
Now,  Daemon,  waft  I  thee  my  last  embrace, 
And  mourn  the  vision  of  thy  vanished  face. 


LI. 

But  when  resistless,  royal  Spring  comes  on, 
I  have  no  need  for  thee,  no,  none  at  all; 

TM-J-z.  t-  f     I.  1.  1JU 

The  distant  echo  of  her  herald  horn 

Swells  in  my  breast  and  drowns  all  other  call. 

The  first,  faint  token  of  her  presence  told, 

A  1_1       J      J  •  CL     U 

As,  grass  new-bladed  on  some  margin  field, 

Arbutus  breaking  from  its  leafy  mould, 

Or  crocus  peering  from  some  stony  shield, 

These  lay  the  ghosts  that  threaten  in  my  thought, 

And  bid  dreams  vanish  and  the  senses  live, 

And  bring  my  bride  to  me,  the  Spring,  long  sought, 

Who  swears  and  kisses  and  is  fugitive, — 

Spring,  who  makes  quick  the  streams  and  trees  and  birds 

And  puts  the  eloquence  in  mortal  words. 


LII. 

The  Spring  returns !     What  matters  then  that  War 

On  the  horizon  like  a  beacon  burns, 

That  Death  ascends,  man's  most  desired  star, 

That  Darkness  is  his  hope  ?      The  Spring  returns ! 

Triumphant  through  the  wider-arched  cope 

She  comes,  she  comes,  unto  her  tyranny, 

And  at  her  coronation  are  set  ope 

The  prisons  of  the  mind,  and  man  is  free  ! 

And  beggar-garbed  or  over-bent  with  snows, 

Each  mortal,  long  defeated,  disallowed, 

Feeling  her  touch,  grows  stronger  limbed,  and  knows 

The  purple  on  his  shoulders  and  is  proud. 

The  Spring  returns !      O  madness  beyond  sense, 
Breed  in  our  bones  thine  own  omnipotence  ! 


LIIL 

As  air  the  waves  are  and  the  earth  as  glass. 
I  see  Life's  fire-strown  seeds,  in  shuttled  flow, 
Rise  from  the  darkness,  pass,  and  then  repass, 
Kindling  each  other  as  they  come  and  go. 
The  herbage  hides  not  its  own  change  from  me, 
I  see  the  oak-tree  flushing  through  its  scars, 
The  buried  births  in  torched  troop  I  see, 
Plain  as  the  nightly  Spring-tide  of  the  stars. 
Up  climbs  the  fire  to  bud,  to  leaf,  to  bird, 
Up  to  the  winged  rose  quivering  in  the  air, 
Up  to  the  finish  and  Spring's  final  word, — 
Sweet  trouble  of  the  rest, — a  woman  fair, 
Whose  eyes  do  exile  Reason  and  bring  in 
Days  and  the  gods  he  knew  not  nor  could  win. 


LIV. 

Go  hence,  Philosophy,  thou  falsest  truth, 
Thou  unremembered  remembrancer, 
Who  rakes  the  ashes  o'er  the  fires  of  youth, — 
Go,  for  the  golden  Morning  is  astir: 
Dialectician  of  the  undying  dead, 
Thy  place  is  with  the  vaunt  and  utmost  star, 
Not  here  where  roses  wreathe  about  the  head, 
Where  mutinous  bosoms  swell,  where  kisses  are, 
Where  the  moon-lucent  limbs  of  girls  gleam  through 
Their  cloud-belongings,  where  the  tides  of  blood 
Follow  such  sway  in  turbulent  retinue, 
Where,  with  its  potent  and  imperious  mood, 
Youth's  instant  immortality  does  make 
Mock  of  Time's  wisdom  and  his  lengthened  ache. 


LV. 

By  the  moon's  sickle  swiftly  harvested 
Now  do  the  thick-sown  growths  of  heaven  fall, 
Now  distantly  the  few,  large  stars  are  spread, 
Mute,  mute,  but  dangerous  in  each  interval ; 
By  the  moon's  magic  now  the  earth  is  held, 
By  magic  and  the  white  eclipse  of  May, 
And  I,  too,  captive  to  the  cirque  compelled, 
Push  the  tinged  lilacs  from  my  door  away. 
The  shrub-set  lawns,  the  denser  shadowed  hedge, 
The  vine-masked  porches,  and  the  glittering  street, 
Open  before  me,  but  my  soul  is  pledge 
That  the  whole  world  lies  naked  at  my  feet. 
On  the  next  slope  Endymion  sleeps  in  trance, 
And  O,  the  wind  whispers  deliverance. 


LVI. 

Away!      They  wait  me  on  those  upper  lawns 
(Where  the  broad  chestnut  and  the  sweeping  fir 
Shadow  the  slumber  of  the  undying  fawns) 
They  wait  me  whom  the  god  has  set  astir, — 
The  leaf-crowned,  thrysus-sceptred  god,  who  late 
Rode  through  this  village  at  the  heels  of  Spring, 
And  left  the  young  men's  footsteps  more  elate, 
And  set  the  maidens'  heads  a-mutinying; 
Who  now  by  forceful  summoning  does  sway 
Youths,  maidens,  to  his  woodland  revel  loose, 
Each  with  a  branch  of  ivy  for  the  pay 
Of  the  great  Master  of  the  feast  they  choose; 
And  I,  too,  go  where  showering  snows  of  light 
Sift  through  dark  roofs  to  mask  the  road's  steep  flight. 


LVIi. 

The  altar  burns,  the  wine  is  broached,  and  now 
One  by  one  from  the  thick-stemmed  forest  comes 
The  happy  company  of  the  ivy  bough, 
And  the  flutes  greet  us,  and  the  fiercer  drums : 
Askance  we  gaze,  but  the  deep  god,  who  stands 
Gold-ruddy  in  the  moonlight's  faded  flame, 
Soothes  all  our  shyness  into  happy  bands 
And  sets  a  new  stain  on  the  cheek  of  shame. 
I  close  my  eyes  and  open  them  again. 
Still  stays  the  Vision,  the  Enchanter  stays, 
Stays  the  lolled  figures  of  his  Msenad  train, 
The  leaf-wound  thrysi  and  the  altar's  blaze, 

White-statued  maidens  and  bronze-burnished  men, 
Moonlight  and  midnight,  and  the  mountain  glen. 


LVIII. 

Still  stay  they:   but  the  smiling  Master  lifts 
His  thrysus  and  a  phantom  vividwise 
(Moon-brightening  all  the  circle-heaped  drifts) 
Stands  in  the  middle  of  our  mysteries. 
O  flowing  limbs,  or  free  or  clad  in  white! 
O  darker  lordship  of  the  daring  head! 
O  lips !    O  eyes !   O  clear  and  matchless  might ! 
Madness  my  gain  is  or  thy  sacred  bed. 
About  us  many  figures  move  and  float, 
The  guests  of  Bacchus  break  into  a  dance, 
The  silver  flutes  of  heaven  sound  remote, 
And  nearer  is  the  Maenad  dissonance : 

This,  the  most  perfect  night's  most  perfect  hour 
Opens,  and  opens  the  woods'  inmost  bower. 


LIX. 

Hark !  hark !     Below  girl-voices  echo,  singing 

A  ditty  of  the  rose  and  revel  time: 

"  Hymen !    O  Hymen !"  so  the  cries  go  ringing, — 

Some  that  would  stay,  some  that  would  help  her  climb. 

"  Come,  Hymen,  troop  with  us,  and  leave  those  scorners, 

Cold  girls,  unwedded  in  their  forest  glen." 

"  Stay  with  us,  Hymen,  in  these  bosky  corners, 

A  woodland  estray  innocent  of  men." 

"  The  torch  is  lit  and  by  the  chamber  portal 

Flushed,  daring-eyed,  the  bridegroom  now  does  wait." 

"  Divine,  divine  no  longer,  but  a  mortal, 

The  pale  bride  trembles  at  the  coming  fate." 

"  Help !    Hymen,  help  to  set  the  future  free !" 

"  Aid  !    Hymen,  aid  thy  sister  deity !" 


LX. 

The  work  is  done:   the  Master  has  withdrawn 
His  purple-splashed  and  silver-painted  crew; 
Gone  is  the  glade,  the  oak-trees  gone,  and  gone 
The  stars'  intruding  figures  out  of  view; 
And  lo !   the  wonder-phantom  at  my  side, 
With  arm  moon-dyed,  rose-fragrant,  and  with  breast 
Tumultuous  moved  as  the  plunging  tide, 
Turns  in  the  darkness  as  to  seek  the  rest. 
Now  is  my  being  shaken  to  the  root; 
Now  would  I  cry,  kneel,  grovel  in  my  fears ; 
But  my  blood  urges  on  a  stronger  suit: 
To  conquer,  conquer  for  all  coming  years ; 
And  in  this  night  of  passion  does  the  Shape 
Grow  real,  and  no  longer  seek  escape. 


LXI. 

I  wake,  and,  leaning  on  my  arm,  behold 

The  morning  remnant  of  the  Gods'  wild  flight, 

The  panther  skins,  the  sleeping  Shape  of  gold, 

Winged  Hope  made  certain  in  a  single  night. 

Under  the  branches  of  the  tree  of  Jove, 

Sure  to  my  touch  and  glorious  in  my  eyes, 

The  creature  and  incarnate  soul  of  Love 

Lies  in  the  proof  of  all  my  phantasies. 

This  is  the  neck  whose  turning  thrilled  me,  this 

The  arm  that  maddened,  this  the  blinding  hair; 

Here  are  the  thousand  presences  of  bliss; 

Eyes  that  make  mine  what  mocking  lips  misswear. 

Now  for  my  thought,  my  freedom,  no  regret; 

He  whom  Love  has  o'erthrown  lives  prouder  yet. 


LXII. 

Desire  has  touched  me  with  its  rod  divine, 
Straight  and  aspiring  stand  I,  and  my  heart, 
Full  of  the  larger  graces  libertine, 
Scorns  its  old  ways  and  low-contented  part. 
We  pass  the  forest  threshold,  and  our  shades 
Enter  the  world  before  us,  to  possess 
Whatever  glory  equals,  nor  upbraids 
Our  high-exampled  bliss  and  blessedness. 
Love's  profuse  and  uncalculated  joy 
Demands  from  life  an  answering  expense, 
Purple  that  fades  not,  gold  without  alloy, 
All  perfect  and  all  pure  magnificence. 

The  body's  splendor  and  the  spirit's  ease, 
All  my  security  I  build  on  these. 


LXIII. 

Then  do  I  fall  on  honor  and  renown; 
For  Love  is  not  content  in  its  own  sphere 
To  live  and  lighten,  but  far  up  and  down 
Unto  all  other  orbits  must  appear. 
Therefore  I  take  the  pipe  wherein  is  bound 
The  strain  of  Orpheus,  or  what  later  notes 
Drew  the  immortals  unto  Grecian  ground, 
And  on  the  air  anew  the  anguish  floats; 
Or  stung  to  action  by  the  fading  Wreath 
I  seize  a  sword,  and  where  the  battle  swarms 
Move  through  the  ranks  of  onset,  move  to  death, 
Move  with  the  glitter  of  the  goddess's  arms ; — 
So  Love  more  deep  may  love  my  absent  face, 
So  that  renown  may  hover  round  my  race. 


LXIV. 

Yet  Peace  in  some  walled  garden  close  were  best, 
Peace  not  o'erleaping  or  burst  in  upon, 
With  Innocence  for  a  perpetual  guest, 
All  effort  made  and  every  guerdon  won. 
Pure  airs  are  here,  untainted  springs  abound, 
Filtered  through  earthy  channels  from  the  sky, 
And  in  and  out  the  rose-disordered  ground 
Sweet  and  familiar  figures  wander  by. 
But  the  more  high,  distinct,  and  awful  race, 
The  brood  of  glory  in  their  woe  intense, 
They  by  report  but  enter  in  this  place, 
As  stars  they  move  us,  but  their  march  is  hence. 
Here  is  my  cloistered  seat,  here  have  I  known 
Hope's  twentieth  restoration  to  her  throne. 


LXV. 

Him  do  I  praise,  who,  plunging  in  the  wave, 
Wrestles  one  bout  with  the  frame-crushing  coil, 
Then,  with  some  quick-snatched  treasure,  seeks  his  cave, 
Lured  no  longer  by  the  ocean-spoil ; 
Him  do  I  praise,  who,  striking  in  the  throng 
Of  athletes,  is  the  equal  of  their  day, 
But  leaves  unclaimed  the  crown  that  should  belong 
To  his  swift-running  feet  or  muscles'  play; 
Him  do  I  praise,  who,  safe  with  wife  and  child, 
Safe  by  the  oak-fire  to  his  hearth-gods  made, 
Frames  a  clear  music  from  earth's  outcry  wild, 
Seeking  no  other  audience  and  no  aid. 
Virtue  I  praise  and  not  its  act  or  praise, 
The  soul's  true  centre,  not  the  circle  rays. 


LXVI. 

Ay,  let  the  world  retake  the  gifts  it  gave, — 
Ease,  honor,  all  its  fair-disguised  harms ; 
I  am  content  if  Love  but  stay,  and  have 
My  world  within  the  rondure  of  her  arms : 
Condemned  unto  no  business  but  to  buy 
Kisses  with  kisses,  to  heap  joys  amain, — 
This  is  the  merriest  kind  of  beggary; 
Merchants  may  envy  my  quick-counted  gain. 
Ah,  what  a  weary  travel  is  our  act, — 
Here,  there,  and  back  again  to  seek  some  prize; 
Friends  who  are  wise  their  voyage  do  contract 
To  the  safe  path  between  each  other's  eyes. 

Come,  my  sweet  mistress,  love  shall  life  outlast; 

Let  the  world  drift,  for  we  are  anchored  fast. 


LXVII. 

Ah,  the  forgotten  spell  upon  me  comes, 
The  circle  I  evaded  closes  in, 
The  angry  Genius  lifts  its  head  and  roams 
Through  the  fair  paradise  I  hoped  to  win ! 
At  talk,  at  feast,  at  play  perchance  I  sit 
Close-shut  with  Love,  but  still  a  darker  third 
Enters  the  place,  and  She  and  I  and  It, 
Chilled,  fall  apart  and  speak  no  other  word. 
Then  beauty  seems  to  fade  from  Beauty's  face, 
Ay,  from  my  side,  Love,  darkening,  seems  to  flow, 
Far,  far  removed  from  its  wonted  place, 
From  my  heart's  throne  her  mirrored  self  does  go, 
And  undisguised  the  Daemon  there  again 
Smiles  at  the  opening  of  his  sterner  reign. 


LXVIII. 

Dimness,  cool  rest,  and  dreams  within, — without 
The  echo-deafened,  lapsed  monotone 
And  glare  of  noontide.      O,  let  Love  not  doubt 
That  forfeit  in  me  which  the  world  does  share  ! 
Though  drawn,  I  gaze  upon  the  whirlpool  track 
Under  the  window.      Madness,  rage,  is  there, 
And  battle  ever,  though  Peace  does  not  lack 
Prospects  of  fields  serene  and  kindly  air; 
Throngs  meet  and  melt,  fates  alter  ere  you  mark 
There  goes  a  funeral,  here  a  new-made  wife, 
Rich  harvest-wains  go  laboring  by, — but  hark ! 
Up  from  the  peace,  this  tumult,  this  rich  life, 
Up  from  the  street  is  flung  the  self-same  cry 
Wrenched  from  thy  marble  lips,  Philosophy! 


LXIX. 

Love  sleeps !      Her  limbs  are  charmed  in  their  flow, 
Bronze-buried  is  her  bosom  in  her  hair, 
Flushed,  fragrant  like  the  Springtide's  second  snow, 
Fruit  is  in  promise,  and  the  bloom  is  there. 
God  !  and  must  these  calm  limbs,  with  convulsed  stress, 
Fester  to  earth  ?     Must  this  hair's  glory  fade  ? 
Must  these  lips  leave  the  roses  rivalless  ? 
Against  perfection  is  a  canon  made  ? 
Kisses  to  stay  the  ruin !     No,  my  heart : 
Thy  kisses  and  thy  tears  alike  would  burn, 
An  iron  anger  is  thy  only  part; 
Back,  back  unto  thy  desolation  turn. 
What  matters  it?     Antigone  is  dead, 
And  Juliet  keeps  for  aye  her  wormy  bed. 


LXX. 

Love  unashamed,  Love  undishonored, 
Love  of  the  lineage  or  the  life  of  fire, 
Love  with  the  burning  limbs,  the  golden  head, 
The  glittering  weapons,  and  the  godlike  ire, 
Love  has  departed,  but  her  shadow  stays, 
A  ghost  of  sunlight  whitely  glimmering  by, 
A  smoke-wreath  from  a  too  quick  quenched  blaze, 
A  ruin  that  we  name  satiety. 
Though  to  her  touch  the  last  nerve  quivers  still, 
Though  the  eye  makes  account  of  all  her  charms, 
The  soul's  gates  open  not  nor  ever  will, 
Save  tyrant-like  she  shake  them  with  her  arms : 
Love  must  train  eagles  and  discard  her  doves, 
And  for  armed  camps  desert  her  moonlit  groves. 


LXXI. 

Cannot  thy  lips,  Love,  take  the  graver's  cast 
To  make  their  thick-strown  seals  the  impress  of  fate  ? 
Can'st  thou  not  cease  to  alter  and  stay  fast 
At  thy  orbed  noon  and  ardor  passionate? 
Can'st  thou  not  burst  the  barrier  and  defence 
'Twixt  thee  and  me,  that  to  our  strong  desire 
Thought  may  be  one  with  thought  and  sense  with  sense 
Inseparable  as  a  single  fire? 
Can'st  thou  not  order  that  within  the  heart 
Degree  and  doubt  shall  cease  their  dangerous  plea? 
No,  and  thrice  no!     Then  let  us  kiss  and  part; 
Strange  or  indifferent  must  our  beings  be. 
Soul-suicide  am  I  that  banish  Love, 
But  the  dark  stirs  with  life,  and  there  I  move. 


LXXII. 

Yet  go,  Love,  with  the  magic  of  thy  tears, 

To  the  Dark  Conqueror  of  the  desert  mind ; 

Go  in  the  radiance  of  thy  infant  years, 

Like  her  whose  life  was  ransom  for  a  wind; 

Clasp  his  great  knees  in  thy  frail-moulded  arms, 

Quench  his  fierce  gaze  in  thy  bright-swimming  eyes, 

Touch  him  with  presence  of  thy  sacred  charms, 

Thrill  him  with  promise  and  with  potencies. 

In  vain !      The  knife  is  ready  for  the  thrust. 

Thou  dost  shrink  back  !    Nay,  sob  not, — that's  for  me ! 

Nobly  thou  meet'st  the  shadow  that  thou  must, 

With  even  one  last  smile  for  thine  enemy. 

Love  leaves  me,  and  I  go — where  ?     Without  her 
What  dread  worlds  wait  for  their  discoverer ! 


LXXIII. 

But  we  are  left,  O  Daemon;  we  endure 

To  audit  the  accompt  of  that  last  blow. 

Thou  dost  deny  me  happiness;  be  sure 

Thou  not  refusest  the  boon :     To  know.     To  know. 

Not  by  slight  guesses  may  I  now  be  won ; 

Dream's  faith  would  question  if  faith  aught  could  lack ; 

Thou  must  voyage  with  me  to  the  central  One. 

Mine  be  the  peril,  mine  the  journey  back. 

Thou  hast  been  judge  of  me  and  still  wouldst  press 

Thy  service  for  each  errand  of  the  soul. 

Now  o'er  thee  rises  a  ruler  merciless  ; 

Thou  must  be  all,  do  all,  and  all  control. 

Love,  Joy,  Hope  went  for  that  thou  didst  insist; 

Now  find  a  worthier  for  each  friend  dismissed. 


LXXIV. 

Come,  let  us  hence,  ere  we  are  grown  too  weak  ! 
An  immortal  charge  of  sorrow  have  we  gained; 
Twinned  now  in  hate  together  must  we  seek 
The  isolation  that  before  we  feigned. 
The  gates  of  life  close  on  us,  clanging  wrath, 
Their  towers  are  sentinelled  to  do  us  wrong; 
That  way  again  we  go  not;   here's  our  path. 
The  chill  of  space  strikes  on  us;  we  are  strong, 
Ay,  we  are  strong,  and  free  to  choose  our  world 
Out  of  yon  streaming  drift  of  ceaseless  stars. 
But  hold !      This  sere  thing  on  my  shoulder  curled — 
Autum's  last  gift  ere  we  had  crossed  earth's  bars — 
O'erweights  me  till  I  stagger.     One  frail  leaf 
Crushes  me  with  the  whole  world's  woe  and  grief. 


LXXV. 

The  mighty  soul  that  is  ambition's  mate, 
Tied  to  the  shillings  of  a  certain  star, 
Forgets  the  circle  of  its  mortal  state 
And  what  its  planetary  aspects  are, 
Till,  in  conjunctive  course  and  wandering, 
Out  of  its  trance  and  treasure-dream  of  hope 
It  wakens,  poor  illusionary  thing ! 
Wingless,  without  desire,  or  deed,  or  scope. 
So  have  I  with  imaginations  played 
Till  I  have  lost  life's  sure  and  single  good, 
Forgotten  friendships,  broken  vows,  and  made 
My  heart  a  highway  for  ingratitude, 
And,  driven  to  the  desert  of  the  sky, 
Fear  now  no  thing  but  immortality. 


LXXVI. 

Worlds  are  our  quest.      Daemon,  thine  errand  try. 
Knock  at  this  gate!      Here  lives  no  doubt  or  woe. 
Be  answered !      Hark  !      That  anguished,  mortal  cry  ! 
God,  do  they  sentinel  thy  heavens  so  ? 
Another  star !      Haunt  this  of  serene  joys, 
Content's  fair  harbor.      Lo,  the  doors  roll  wide: 
Two  giant  figures  struggling,  and  a  voice, — 
"Pass,  for  we  die  as  all  our  fathers  died !" 
A  third  world  then  !    Knock !    Question  ! — all  is  known, 
All  fathomed  here.      So  !      Comes  the  answer  back, — 
"We  know  the  footing  safe  that  falls  on  stone ; 
But  tread  beyond,  the  path  may  something  lack." 

What  is  our  voyage  worth,  O  Daemon?     We 

Had  yesterday  more  than  this  history. 


LXXVII. 

Through  vault  to  vault  we  move,  from  dome  to  dome, 

Above  unfathomably  mirroring  floors, 

Nor  to  the  limit  darkness  can  we  come, 

Though  chaos  in  the  heart  beat  out  its  wars. 

No  secret  do  the  stars  yield,  nor  the  air 

Where  the  leagued  beacon-runners  leap  and  burn. 

Whence  are  their  fires  ?     What  message  do  they  bear  ? 

Hopeless  the  soul  looks  forth  and  does  return. 

But  thou,  O  Daemon,  can'st  put  out  thy  hand; 

And  one  by  one  these  lights  do  sweep  from  space 

As  runners  at  the  word  dart  from  their  stand 

And  silence  waits  the  issue  of  the  race. 

The  abyss  is  ours;   thoughts  circle  and  its  throne, 
And  for  the  end  we  wait,  and  wait  alone. 


LXXVIII. 

Thought,  only  thought,  a  darkness  and  a  blank, 

Groping  we  stir,  lost  in  the  empty  void ; 

Blotted  the  awful  heavens  rank  o'er  rank, 

Barred  the  prison  of  the  soul  decoyed. 

No  living  presence  here  may  force  its  aid, 

No  echo  of  delivery  or  of  doom, 

No  dream  may  come  to  soothe,  for  dreams  are  made 

The  second  circle  of  these  walls  of  gloom. 

Terror  alone  keeps  with  us  cold  and  chill, 

Constant  before  the  closed  eyes  that  see, 

Terror  and  the  immitigable  Will 

Which  moves  not,  acts  not,  but  must  ever  be. 
So  wait  we  for  the  secret  long  desired : 
Others  have  failed  for  that  they  feared  or  tired. 


LXXIX. 

I  light  one  torch  and  fling  it  in  the  dark; 
Fire-tapestried  on  night  or  shadow  cast, 
A  thousand  forms  lit  by  that  little  spark 
In  endless  rush  and  whirl  go  eddying  past. 
Again  a  torch  and  all  are  gone,  save  they, 
Time,  Space,  and  that  unfathomable  One, 
Oblivion's  rival,  whom  the  rest  obey, 
Yet  from  Oblivion's  self  have  never  known. 
Soul,  make  thy  choice !      Either  be  of  the  throng 
That  dies  in  birth  and  has  no  self-control, 
Or  to  the  pure  and  secret  force  belong, 
The  soundless  dark  that  orbs  the  perfect  Whole; 
Either  abide  in  change  and  restless  flame, 
Or  in  the  nothing  whence  thy  being  came. 


LXXX. 

Daemon,  O  guide,  is  there  no  third  way  ope, 
May  we  not  'scape  that  whirlpool,  this  abyss  ? 
Delusions  can'st  thou  give,  and  give  me  hope, 
But  Death  thy  only  certain  answer  is. 
Sadly  thou  turnest  thy  unavailing  eyes 
On  mine  and  like  two  mirrors  opposite, 
Emptiness  unto  emptiness  replies : 
O  thy  conception  was  the  womb  of  night, 
No  stars  did  presage  or  look  upon  thy  birth, 
The  Real  Image  came  not  where  thou  layest, 
Pinioned,  thou  darest  to  judge  of  freedom's  worth, 
And  islanded  to  know  the  ocean-waste. 

Thought  cannot  govern  what  it  has  not  gained, 
Nor  measure  God  in  whom  it  is  contained. 


LXXXI. 

But  I  do  know,  and  am  at  far  remove, 
One  with  some  spirit  of  universal  sway, 
And,  but  for  thy  most  busy  aid,  might  prove 
Lord  over  elements  I  now  obey. 
A  power  is  in  me,  but  whene'er  I  seek, 
Thy  face  is  all  I  see.     Thou  dost  intrude 
Thy  dominoed  figure,  infinite,  unique, 
Masking  all  else  in  thine  own  multitude; 
Thou  dost  so  order  it  within  my  house 
That  thou  art  all  the  entertainment  there, — 
The  wine,  the  food,  the  fire,  the  host,  the  spouse; 
Thou  art  the  very  guests  whom  thou  biddest  fair. 
Naught  can  escape  thee,  nothing  shroud  in  gloom, 
No  unknown  figure  rise  to  work  thy  doom. 


LXXXII. 

Yet,  spite  thy  inquisition,  still  there  lurks 
Some  trembling  motion  in  my  heart's  hid  shrine; 
Lo !  the  miraculous  symbol  lives  and  works, — 
Daylight  is  drowned  in  a  glow  divine. 
New  purged,  my  eyes  see  the  new  glory  there, — 
Creatures  who  dwelt  without  my  former  sense, 
The  under  valleys  of  the  smoothed  air, 
Stars  that  were  dark  in  whirling  march  intense. 
Now  the  thought  needs  not  seek  for  the  abyss, 
The  world's  great  circle  that  does  still  retreat ; 
Near,  near  at  hand,  at  every  turning,  this 
Yawns,  and  a  bridge  falls  o'er  it  to  my  feet, 
And  ere  the  pathway  half  is  overtrod 
Rises  on  me  the  final  Dawn  of  God. 


LXXXIII. 

Mine  eyes  fall  from  the  statue  to  the  plinth, 
Back  unto  sense  and  thought  and  sense  I  sink, 
Back  to  the  windings  of  the  labyrinth, 
Back  to  the  old  question  and  the  broken  link. 
Ah,  I  must  cease  to  struggle,  and  accept 
The  iron  limits  of  my  prison-place, 
Remit  the  knightly  vigil  I  have  kept, 
And  swear  a  truce  out  with  the  dark  and  base; 
And  thou,  O  inward  singer,  who  with  me 
Kept  the  thronged  strait  of  fight  against  all  odds, 
Done  is  thy  song  and  sword-play !     Banished  be 
Pipe  to  the  hierarchies  of  buried  gods ! 
This  is  our  lesson,  that  the  spirit  came 
Out  of  the  whirl  it  now  essays  to  name. 


LXXXIV. 

Then  fails  our  hope.     Despair  is  all  of  life; 
Evil  has  Good's  most  gentle  smile  in  use, 
And  Good  does  borrow  Evil's  bloody  knife; 
Either  is  excellent,  and  none  may  choose. 
Base  and  ignoble  did  the  soul  begin, 
No  path  was  pointed  it,  no  goal  was  placed  ; 
Blind,  in  the  dark,  a  race  it  went  to  win, 
Guideless  without,  and  its  ownself  a  waste. 
No  race  it  wins  if  day  and  night  be  one, 
If  the  great  forms  of  Law  and  ends  of  Good 
Live  not  for  it  to  make  comparison; 
No  race  it  wins,  but  jostles  in  a  wood. 

Save  that  God  separate  stands,  creation  must 
Die  beyond  death  and  crumble  past  all  dust 


LXXXV. 

Thou  livest,  O  soul !  be  sure,  though  earth  be  flames, 
Though  lost  be  all  the  paths  the  planets  trod, 
Thou  hast  not  aught  to  do  with  signs  and  names, 
With  Life's  false  art  or  Time's  brief  period. 
Thy  being  wast  ere  yet  the  heavens  were  not, 
Gently  thy  breath  the  waves  of  ether  stirred, 
And  often  hast  thou  feared  and  oft  forgot, 
Yet  knew  thyself  when  rang  the  parent  Word. 
Long  hast  thou  played  at  change  through  chain  on  chain 
Of  beings,  drooping  now  in  strange  descent, 
Now  adding  bloom  to  bloom  and  beauty's  gain, 
Through  subtle  growths  of  glory  evident. 
O  earnest  play,  thyself  apart  oft  smilest, 
One  still  at  heart,  that  so  thyself  beguilest. 


LXXXVI. 

Perchance,  my  Daemon,  thou  and  I  alone 
Have  the  inheritance  of  this  changing  flow, 
Whose  lapse  leaves  nothing  certain,  nothing  known ; 
Perchance  the  figure  and  the  dream  of  show 
Are  but  the  blazon  on  the  gates  of  fate 
That  close  upon  us  wheresoe'er  we  turn, 
Upon  whose  lucid  darkness  iterate 
Our  myriad,  mirroring  echoes  live  and  burn. 
So  we  but  move,  and  suns  remote  arise ; 
So  we  but  speak,  and  stars  chime  in  accord; 
So  we  but  speak,  and  breed  vast  phantasies, 
Delusions  that  do  dominate  their  lord; 
So  we  but  knock,  and  thereupon  will  be 
God's  thunder  moving  through  eternity. 


LXXXVII. 

False  fiend,  this  is  the  cunning  of  thine  art ! 

What  were  truth  worth  if  mine  own  thought  were  truth  ? 

What  were  life  worth  to  the  void-wheeling  heart  ? 

No  !   by  the  altars  of  the  gods  of  youth ; 

No  !   by  the  hill-fires  of  the  rising  sun ; 

No  !   by  the  smoking  incense  of  the  sea, — 

Life's  blazing  circle  round  me  still  must  run, 

Nor  I  from  it  nor  it  can  go  from  me. 

Yet  dwells  one  power  aloof  from  life,  to  whom 

Fate  is  not  fate,  who  works  not  for  increase, 

Who  lays  no  hand  upon  the  whirring  loom, 

Whose  action  is  what  silence  dreams  of  peace; 

And  my  glory  is  that  not  the  great  world's  light 

Obscures  me  from  this  deeper  infinite. 


LXXXVIII. 

Again  a  guess  !      The  dicing  moon  below 
With  its  cloud-shadows  on  gray  slopes  may  glance; — 
May  not  the  soul,  as  idle-eager,  throw 
One  and  another  and  another  chance  ? 
Is  it  not  true,  is  it  not  true  that  He 
Who  from  perfection  stooped  to  halting  act, 
Who  from  himself  did  form  his  enemy, 
Who  put  in  question  what  he  had  not  lacked, 
Fashioned  as  well  the  soul  of  man,  to  have 
Part  in  the  riot  and  ruin,  yet  to  bear 
A  higher  touch,  indomitably  brave, 
Wings  that  should  weary  down  the  wildest  air, 
Eyes  that  should  see  where  light  itself  does  end, 
Courage  to  still  attack  and  still  defend  ? 


LXXXIX. 

Come  to  a  truce,  my  thought,  let  us  be  friends  ! 
Why  should  I  quarrel  that  thou  can'st  not  know 
The  all  in  all,  the  space  wherein  space  ends, 
Where  I  have  been  but  thou  can'st  never  go? 
Praise,  praise  to  thee  for  that  thou  keepest  the  fames 
Of  all  the  shadowy  godheads  of  the  earth; 
Praise  that  thou  oft  repeatest  more  sacred  names 
Whose  echo  in  the  world  has  little  worth. 
"Wisdom"  thou  criest,  though  all  thy  way  be  dark  ; 
"Justice"  thou  callest,  though  evil  walls  thee  round ; 
"Love,  love,"  thou  singest,  and  soarest  ere  thou  mark 
If  any  daylight  calls  thee  from  the  ground. 

Truth's  veil  thou  knowest,  and,  ah  !  more  wisely  fond, 
Thou  knowest  thou  dost  not  know  what  lies  beyond. 


xc. 

Thus  dost  thou  speak :   "Master,  I  can  no  more ; 
No  nimbler  herald  had  the  gods.      Here,  there, 
About  thy  prison  have  I  sought  the  door; 
My  plumes  are  broken  and  my  eyes  despair. 
Let  divine  reason  yield  to  brutish  sway, 
Cease  to  perplex  the  riddle  with  thy  wit, 
Beloved  oblivion  seek  some  lower  way, 
Since  mounting  wings  will  no  wise  compass  it. 
Fall !   for  the  air  is  fatal  where  thou  art ; 
Sleep  !   for  with  spectres  is  the  sunlight  rife ; 
Forget !   forget !   forget !   and  free  the  heart 
From  the  iron  leaguer  of  its  foes  of  life." 
So :   and  I  take,  obedient  to  thy  voice, 
Lethe's  black  draught  and  the  ignobler  choice. 


XCI. 

But  thence  is  madness  !      I  could  never  stay 
Lost,  that  once  had  the  action  of  a  star; 
Necessity  is  on  me  to  o'ersway 
And  sweep  from  darkness  proud  and  regular  ! 
But  madness  is  thy  aim.      Thou  wouldst  arrange 
A  halting-place  where  Hope  and  Act  may  meet 
And  neither  know  the  other's  awful  change. 
Then  is  my  throne  become  Orestes'  seat, 
And  for  the  stand  at  bay  'gainst  hounds  of  pain 
I  take  a  vacant  gaze  and  huddled  state, 
And  the  snakes  glide  and  glitter  in  my  brain. 
No,  Daemon,  not  that  way  to  baffle  Fate. 

Though  all  Fate's  judgment  in  one  word  is  loosed, 
Still  would  I  answer,  though  the  sole  accused. 


XCII. 

Where  sleeps  the  Origin  thy  power  dost  pine  ? 
Thou  dwindlest  as  we  near  the  obscure  brink, 
Thou  by  my  sufferance  livest,  not  I  by  thine, 
For  I  can  think  or  can  disdain  to  think. 
In  the  old  days  thou  madest  divorce  and  pain 
'Twixt  the  proud  world  of  shadows  and  myself; 
As  great  a  gulf  now  yawns  to  part  us  twain, 
Severed  we  gaze  each  from  his  dizzy  shelf. 
Mummer  of  masks,  subtly  thou  madest  report — 
Potent  o'er  changes  which  did  live  in  thee — 
Of  the  world's  doing,  and  didst  still  distort 
And  barrier  truth  without  from  truth  in  me. 
Now  on  this  jut  of  space  where  we  have  flown 
Unmask  !     Be  true  !     Be  as  thou  art !     Be  known  ! 


XCIII. 

Horror !     The  last  disguise  from  off  thee  slips, 
Threatening  I  know  my  new  antagonist, 
The  fiend  that  companied  me  unto  eclipse 
Gave  me  his  torch,  but  all  lights  else  dismissed; 
Death's  lineaments  thou  hast,  but  yet  art  like 
My  inmost  being.     O  immortal  thief, 
Thou  heldst  my  citadel  wherefrom  to  strike 
Hope  from  my  soul,  and  every  starred  belief! 
Now  must  we  part !     Ay,  do  thy  worst !     Uptear 
My  rooted  laws  of  being  and  of  life, 
Obliterate  all  the  divine  dreams  that  were, 
Open  the  door  where  chaos  rolls  its  strife; — 
Thou  keep'st  me  not.     Nobly  thy  prisoner 
Ends  my  parole,  and  lo !  my  camp's  astir. 


XCIV. 

Be  then,  O  beautiful  yet  sombre  one, 

Hostile  or  neuter  to  my  haughty  soul, 

Traitor  that  deemedst  I  could  not  live  alone, 

Tutored  and  tethered  by  the  mind's  control, 

Thought's  not  the  soul,  though  the  great  officer 

That  does  its  captain  threat  by  its  retreat, 

But  Death  withdraws,  and  Doubt  does  with  thee  spur, 

And  the  soul  rises  conquering  and  complete. 

Sunlight  in  sunlight,  cloud  in  the  obscure, 

Oblivion's  living  essence  float  I  free, 

A  restless  point  of  life  that  must  endure, 

A  fire  that  shall  outwatch  eternity. 

Proud  was  I,  Thought,  clad  forth  in  thy  array, 
But  now  I  know  thy  garments  were  decay. 


xcv. 

Yet  all  the  glory  that  thine  hour  did  give, 
Thrilled  I  feel,  all  thy  creations  past, — 
Less  than  divine,  for  all  were  fugitive; 
Thy  shows  did  waver  while  my  soul  stood  fast. 
And  oft  the  cost  of  parting  do  I  count 
That  leaves  me  beggared  as  my  voyage  begins, 
For  past  thy  empire  my  amassed  amount 
Uncurrent  is,  and  no  step  forward  wins. 
Yet  can  I  go  no  farther  by  thy  side, 
Not  though  thy  treaty  is  to  hold  me  free, 
Not  though  thou  chain  all  Nature  for  my  pride, 
Not  though  life's  secret  shall  no  secret  be, 
Not  though  the  cheat  is  nobly  not  to  die, 
For  not  to  live  in  splendor  will  I  lie. 


XCVI. 

I  take  a  trumpet,  for  no  thing  less  proud 
May  sound  thy  dirge,  O  proud  and  mighty  Thought. 
Thou  at  the  last  to  Fate's  array  hast  bowed; 
Conquerer  till  now,  this  field  thou  leavest  unfought; 
But  thy  great  figure  fills  the  slopes  of  time; 
Where  ocean  ebbs  into  night's  orb,  where  drawn 
The  hostile  stars  are  glittering,  where  upclimb 
The  red  and  splendid  shadows  of  the  dawn, 
There  dost  thou  glide,  and  the  exultant  cry, 
Creation's  word,  leaps  from  thy  lips ;  but  now, 
Master  of  the  divided  mystery, 
Now  dost  thou  let  the  world  obliterate  flow 
In  darkness, — all  the  power  and  pomp  it  gave 
Dead !  and  sunk  with  thee  in  one  common  grave. 


XCVII. 

Myself  am  me,  though  darkness  gird  me  round, 
Ay,  though  death  make  its  seat  within  my  heart; 
Pure  leaps  the  flame,  clear  rings  the  crystal  sound, 
That  to  the  Whole  reverbs  my  deathless  Part; 
Though  a  thin  ghost  through  aisles  of  chance  I  glide, 
Nothing  of  alms  will  I  solicit  there; 
Though  Faith  would  warm  me  at  her  breathing  side, 
And  Hope  apparel  with  her  roseate  air. 
I  have  relinquished  all  such  trivial  things 
That  in  the  count  of  glory  once  were  great: 
They  last  not,  they  reveal  not  hidden  springs, 
No  piecemeal  keys  unseal  the  doors  of  fate. 
Naked  to  these  I  come,  not  clad  in  dust, 
And  they  shall  shudder  as  my  spirit  must. 


XCVIII. 

Courage,  the  one  sole  virtue  that  I  bear 

Through  my  long  voyage  and  continuance; 

Courage,  the  rebel  that  would  claim  or  share 

The  kingdom  aimed  at  both  by  Fate  and  Chance, — 

Courage  still  keeps  my  soul.     The  days  dismissed 

Pass  noiseless  by  me  that  were  noisy  once, 

The  central  flame  of  all  fades  like  a  mist, 

At  its  last  ebb  the  tide  of  nature  runs, 

And  the  great  world  of  dream,  built  in  the  mind, 

Based  beyond  ruin  by  time's  ebb  and  flow, 

A  citadel  within  the  deaf  and  blind, 

Loosens  its  sure  foundations  and  does  go. 

Still  courage  keeps  my  soul.     Though  baffled,  this 
Broods  like  an  eagle  o'er  the  blank  abyss. 


XCIX. 

O  eagle,  flown  beyond  this  faded  day, 

Thy  height  is  won,  thou  hast  thine  heart's  desire; 

A  wider  ether  would  thy  wings  essay, 

And  the  fire  in  thee  sought  the  source  of  fire. 

Now  is  the  end,  now  night  thy  gaze  restrainest, 

On  vacant  space  thy  plumes  can  beat  no  more, 

Beyond  thou  canst  not,  and  beneath  disdainest, 

Thou  hold'st  devoured  the  deeps  thou  hast  passed  o'er. 

What  is  there  left  ?     In  narrow  circles  flying, 

To  wheel  forever  on  this  verge  of  life, 

Or  solemn-souled  and  sure,  and  fate  defying, 

Sweep  in  proud  splendor  past  the  shores  of  strife, 

Ages  on  ages  hence  perchance  to  fall, 

Or  to  make  covert  and  discover  all. 


c. 

TO    MY    MOTHER. 

Adieu  and  dedication,  the  twin  gates 
That  close  and  ope  the  avenue  of  song, 
Here  at  one  bound  I  set;  and  the  dread  Fates 
Woo  to  rest  here  and  stay  the  eternal  wrong. 
Adieu,  my  dark  Familiar  and  his  quest! 
Adieu,  adieu  my  dreams  !  but  unto  thou, 
Thou  who  art  nobler  than  the  Fancy's  best, 
Greeting  and  recantation  bring  I  now. 
My  doubt,  my  embittered  thought,  thou  shamest,  with  old 
And  sweet  content,  and  thy  time-yellowed  hair 
Makes  true  the  heroic  fables  we  are  told, 
Makes  all  the  train  of  womanhood  seem  fair. 
Much  do  I  lack,  yet  count  I  honor  won, 
Or  fortune,  less  than  that  I  am  thy  son. 


ERRATA. 

Sonnet  86,  line  1 1.     For  "  speak"  read  "  think. 


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